Untitled Document
The Mars Volta
Octahedron
The Mars Volta are a fancy, wiggly rubber lure, and I am but a mere sunfish, enjoying a swim and looking for something to eat. Preferably something wiggly. And they get me every damn time. I always seem to forget that their previous album was borderline unlistenable, as was the one before that and the one before that. And yet I purchase every one of them, hoping that this time--this time--they'll hit the jackpot and produce the all-time classic that I've been waiting for them to produce for the last six years. This new one is a little closer; at least it has songs on it. But even though they've gotten rid of a lot of the "masturbatory" incoherence (by the way, that phrase as it applies to the Mars Volta is worthy of an entire essay someday), but in my mind it is the combination of this masturbatory incoherence and revelatory hooks and rhythms that made those--sigh---two songs on their first album so perfect. I probably need to stop kidding myself. They're just not going to get there. But mark my word, about 16 months from now, when they release their next album, with its fantastic artwork and press release hype, the Mars Volta will be pulling a bloody hook out of my lip and frying me up with some cracker crumbs and butter. And tartar sauce.